The world from seven miles up

Around campus there are sewer caps that bottle up secret caverns. When I pass, I hear far away water crackling on stone deep underground. Little explosions under my feet that no one notices.

This is true. Have you heard them? I want to pry open one of the sewer caps and go exploring, see what mysteries lie underground. See what hidden things lie in these caverns. See what treasures have been stowed away.

In my head I invent an entire network of spiraling caves, connecting campus like a knot of roots shoring up a tall redwood. I think, if I can follow the sound of the crackling water down into just one of these caves I will be a made man. I could spend an entire morning lolloping through the veins of this place, pausing to listen up through the sewer caps, hearing what my peers' conversations sound like mixed with dirt and underground air and water on stone.

What about smoke coming from people's eyes? When I was young I told Mom I could tell she loved me because, when she looked at me, pink smoke streamed from her eyes. If I could have a superpower I would be able to see this smoke. Pink for love, dark blue for sad, green for calm, red for lust. The more intense a color, the more intense the emotion. If there's grey smoke the person is feeling nothing at all. This means I would always know what people were feeling and I could know what they felt about me and it would be my little secret. And I could understand people. And I wouldn't work my brain so hard trying to figure out, What the hell do they like me or not?

This is from a poem I like by Anne Sexton called "The Fury of Overshoes":

Under your bed

sat the wolf

and he made a shadow

when cars passed by

at night.

I love that . . . under your bed / sat the wolf. The most important thing comes last, builds anticipation. I could learn from that.

What about a tower seven miles tall shooting off earth like a giant vine? There is a small old man living in an open room at the top and everyone knows if you can make it there you will learn the secret to Life, the Universe and Everything.

There was a young, brave, and headstrong girl who was determined to get to the top and learn the secrets to Everything. For months she climbed, through storms and high wind, through hunger and thirst. Sometimes pelicans would bring her water in their huge mouth pouches. Sometimes buzzards would bring her raw, festering meat—because that is what they liked and they wanted to give her only the best. Two miles from the top, the air was thin and her breath came heavy. One mile from the top, she could barely fill her lungs.

After six months of climbing the tower, the girl finally reached the top. She was near death. When the little old man saw the young girl he hurried over and gave her what little food and water he had. After she had recovered, the girl said, "I have climbed for months, and I have been hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and cold, and I haven't had a good deep breath in such a long time. I want to know the secrets of Life, the Universe, and Everything."

The old man smiled and turned away. He walked to the edge of his room and looked out. And he just stood there, looking out, completely ignoring the young girl. So she scrambled up and put her face close to the old man's. "You have to tell me—I came all this way . . . Why won't you say anything? Why won't you tell me?"

The old man, without looking down, said, "I am telling you."

And the girl didn't understand, but after a while she followed the old man's eyes. The girl looked out. And the girl saw the world from seven miles up, and everything looked so small and so large at the same time, and the young girl asked for a chair but the old man had already brought her one.

Naming Things

Lately I've been writing some words capitalized. Why? I guess I stole it from The Tao of Pooh. The reason I stole it is, I think, a good one.

Sometimes it's helpful to name things. I am, like most people, afraid of Unknown Things. What better way to make something familiar than to give it a name? If there's a name for something it doesn't seem as mysterious. So if you feel desperately lonely and sad you can say, I'm in a Lonely Place. That makes it seem better somehow. Here we are in Lonely Place—it's just a place, like a dot on a map, and you can drive away as soon as you like. You're not stuck there forever.

Somehow giving things names makes them solid in my brain. They now occupy a space. And whenever something was given a name in The Tao of Pooh, I always had this experience—oh, that thing that's been buzzing around my brain my whole life, that's what it's called. There's a name for this feeling, and other people have thought about this too, and other people have been here too, and I'm not Alone.

And isn't that nice?

Citrus-stained hands

I have a list of things I want to write about for the blog. I add to it when I think of things, then as I write I remove those things. It's always growing and shrinking, growing and shrinking. It feels good to add, it feels good to subtract. It makes me feel like my mind is breathing, in and out, in and out.

I had a sad thought yesterday. I was thinking about friends, friendship. My sad thought was, What a Bust. What a Total Bust. All those boats that were waiting so eagerly at the dock have gone. People are already in their groups, people are content. And wouldn't I be?

Senior year, three months left, there's not enough time to make any lasting friendships. I'm going to end my Stanford career with no lifelong friends. It's over. Done with. Sayonara. Get over it.

Like I said a while back, I'm working on not saying "but." As in, "I was sad yesterday about friendships, but I'm going to ride this bitch until the end so now everything is All Good." That's not the way. It devalues the sadness I felt. That sadness was and is real. The point is—that's okay, that's Good, feeling things is good. So, instead, I'll say:

"I was sad yesterday about my lack of true friends and how I will probably leave here with few if any lifelong connections and, you know what? I'm still going to ride this bitch until the wheels fall off."

Now that's what I like to call a Statement.

How does one ride this bitch until the wheels fall off? Ha! I have to laugh at that sentence. Ahem. How does one? Well, I think I do it by still trying as hard as I can to make friends. Yeah, it may blow up in my face. Yeah, I may get rejected. In fact, I probably will—because think about it. Me and Cora and Emily and Jack. We're close as close could be. Would we just add some random guy to our core group, this thing we've worked on for years, this intricately balance organism, on a whim? Hell no. So I get it. I understand that. And I'm still going to try.

I'm going to put myself Out There. I have already—I wrote an open and honest letter to a friend because I wanted to put myself Out There, and that was a Very Good Thing, and it made me feel Good to write it. I'm asking lots of people to hang out with me and most of the time it blows up in my face. You know? The best piece of advice, the best saying Dad ever instilled in me, was the mantra—Fuck It. Really, truly—Fuck It. Not in a bad way, not in a way that washes your hands of life—in a way that relieves the pressure, in a way that let's you off the hook. You tried. It didn't work. Fuck it. Try again.

Above all, I want citrus-stained hands. I want to eat bitter fruit and sour fruit and sweet fruit and fruit that's too green and fruit that's too brown and I want to eat spotted fruit, and I want to eat it all and get sick and eat it all and feel good and when I leave this place be able to say with wide eyes, "Now wasn't that something."

Tata

My dreams have been speaking to me lately. I'm dreaming so much every night, and I'm writing down my dreams, and I'm remembering them. I always feel my best, my most creative, my most healthy, when I'm dreaming every night.

Two nights ago I dreamt about Tata.

Our family is at the beach, like always, and there is a long, quiet swell. I'm holding onto a string attached to a kite, being drifted out to sea. Tata's swimming and diligently smoking a cigarette. I drift slowly toward her, and I think about how everything is smooth and easy, and when she sees me she asks in English, "What are you doing?"

I take a second to think of the words. "Estoy volando," I say.

She smiles and I can tell she understands me, fully—her brain is not yet touched. Her eyes look strange—milk has seeped through the outer edges of her iris and is just now encroaching on her hard, black pupils.

"You want some?" She holds out the cigarette.

"Why not?" I take a slow, thoughtful puff, and I know I'm holding it wrong. She shows me how men in Cuba smoked.

"Your uncle did it like this." She takes a deep, deep drag and lets the smoke spill away, then she chases the escaped grey sinews with her open mouth and sucks them back in again. "We used to go crazy for that," she said.

Later we are on the phone and she says she knows why people are afraid to let her be near their children. She says she understands. That breaks my heart. "Is it hard?" I ask.

"Who is this?" she asks, looking at me. I'm on the tip of her tongue.

"Lucas. Tu nieto, Lucas."

"Lucas." She nods her head, like she had known all along. "I understand, it's just sad."


That is how my dream went. I got an email from Dad a couple days ago—Tata's MRI came back negative. No brain cancer. No stroke. Thank God.

The doctor said her cognition will improve as the chemicals from the chemo leave her body, and that's a relief. How much of our Tata will be left?

Recipe for a Tasty Life Stew

They are getting Tata an MRI to check for brain cancer. The cancer in her lungs is mostly gone, but now her mind is worse than ever. Dad said he and Shakti were driving Tata home and Tata looked up in the front seat and asked Shakti, "Where is Carlos?" Dad, behind the wheel, one foot away, said "I'm here, mother." And things like that squeeze on my heart and make me angry at doctors and chemotherapy and my aunt who won't listen and keeps pressing for more, more. Mostly, I feel sadness trickling to my fingertips and to my lips and I think, I don't want to see any of this.

I think after Mom died I just don't want to be around it anymore. On the phone I told Tata, "Te quiero para la luna y al regreso," and that made her happy, and I told her I would come visit over spring break, and she liked that too. I don't know if I can.

One part of me I'm ashamed of says, She doesn't even remember you promising her you'd come, you don't have to go.

A different part of me says, She's your grandmother and it's your duty to see her and support her right now. She needs all of us.

A part of me that's softer says, Do what you can, love as much and as fully as you can, and don't fault yourself for the things you cannot give.

I like this third part of me.

Dad said in an email that he was feeling old, beat up, and tired. When Dad is sad it hurts me in my bones like the growing pains I had as a kid. You lie awake at night and the growing seizes your thighs and your calves and your bones and bears down. And there's no mark—that's the worst part, there's no mark to show how it hurts like hell. There's just the silent sound of muscles spinning out, growing longer.

I wish I could scoop him up. I am young and strong and I have opportunities and abilities and I want to make his life easier. I want him to be able to stop seeing clients and to stop having to deal with all their heavy shit. I want him to be able to take care of his plants in the way he taught me, to be able to spend all day with his hands in dirt—if he wants to. I want to help him do this, I do not know how, I do not know if I can. I want to write a New York Times Bestseller so I can have enough money to retire him. This is what I'd call Putting Too Much Pressure on Yourself. This is what I'd call The Wrong Way to Look at Things. It's still something that often and regularly wiggles its way into my thoughts. It also means that I love my dad very much, and that's a Good Thing.

Not every person wants to be my friend. This should have been an Obvious Thing. Now I know, now I am Learning. Now I am not spending energy trying to force friendships that aren't happening. This is also a Good Thing.

I've started reading poetry.

I've been thinking about writing a lot.

I am allowed to look at women again and I forgot how beauty can make your heart jump and make your words come out stupid and I love that.

A new chapter of life, everything feels new, I can do what I want, when I want, I don't have to check in with anyone. My time is my own.

I sound my barbaric YAWP over the roofs of the world.